


Raw Food Diet

by themegalosaurus



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dark, Eating Disorders, Episode: s14e13 Lebanon, Food Issues, Kale!SAm, M/M, Porn, Scars, Self-Harm, felon!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-27 21:45:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17774765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themegalosaurus/pseuds/themegalosaurus
Summary: Sam has one more meeting today. This one isn’t in his diary; not the public calendar everyone at the firm can access, nor the private one on his cell.





	Raw Food Diet

**Author's Note:**

> How do I love thee, kale!Sam? Let me count the ways... (this one fills the Dark Fic square on [my SPN Kink Bingo card](http://themegalosaurus.tumblr.com/post/182795330738/spn-kink-bingo-2019))
> 
> (thank you thank you to [BlindSwanDive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blindswandive) and [road_rhythm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/road_rhythm) who both read this through before I posted it and made many helpful suggestions and improvements)

Sam leaves the building through the underground parking garage. He’s wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses although it’s 9pm, and he takes one of the company Priuses instead of his own. He sent his PA home two hours ago. “I’ll just be at my desk. Paperwork.”

It’s not true. He has one more meeting today. This one isn’t in his diary; not the public calendar everyone at the firm can access, nor the private one on his cell. The reason for that is the same as his reason for leaving the car in a lot on the edge of town and swapping it out for a beat-up truck. He just hopes it’s worth it; the gas mileage on this thing is horrible. It’s not like he’s going any real distance but he can’t help fretting about it, calculating penance.

He tugs the baseball cap further down over his face as he pulls into a drive-through burger joint a couple exits down I-57. He orders two double cheeseburger meals with everything and a chocolate milkshake - dairy, not soy. If he ever gets caught he’s pretty sure this is how it’ll happen. It doesn’t take much to imagine the headlines. ‘CLEAN EATING LAWYER’S DIRTY SECRET’. ‘TED TALK FRAUDSTER PIGS OUT’.

The bags of food sweat grease into the stained cover of the passenger seat as he swings briefly back onto the interstate. A mile and a half later, he eases the truck into the parking lot of a cheap motel. MERLIN’S CASTLE, the sign blinks out nonsensically, with an illustration of a wizard in faded blue robes. Sam checks the burner phone. Room 203.

He knocks on the door three times quickly, twice slowly, but it doesn’t open right away. Inside, he hears the scrape of furniture on floor. There’s a long silence. Sam can almost feel the eye at the peephole, scoping him out.

Eventually, the door cracks open just enough for Sam to edge through. He’s barely in the room when Dean snatches the paper bags out of his hands, grabs a burger from the first one and drops them onto the bed. He doesn’t even sit down before he tears into it. “You eating?” he says, through a mouthful of food.

Sam suppresses a shudder. He hasn’t touched meat for five years. He can’t remember the last time he ate processed carbs. Just the thought of it makes the back of his throat choke up. “All yours,” he says.

Dean swallows, coughs. “Great.” He sits down on the bed and starts into the fries, slurping noisy at the milkshake between bites.

Sam perches on a green plastic chair by the table next the window. One of the legs is shorter than the others and it wobbles underneath him. He looks at his brother.

Dean looks rough. The picture that the FBI has been circulating - has been posting on TV and online for the past ten years - is far out of date. In that image, Dean’s still young. The definition on his cheekbones comes from the stupid face he’s pulling, the ridiculous pout that he can’t have imagined being splashed across the states. Now Dean's age is showing in the lines around his eyes , and the bones in his face are stark. He says he’s doing fine but it's bullshit. Even Dean doesn’t eat like this unless he’s starving.

It’s not just that. There’s a nasty scar curling diagonally across his left cheek. It starts right up towards the bridge of his nose, so close that every time Sam looks at it he seems to see what nearly happened, the slip of a claw that could have cost Dean his eye. Maybe it would have been a good thing. It might have stopped him hunting. God knows nothing else will do it. The scar on his face is just the beginning. Under his clothes--

“I should charge you a viewing fee,” Dean says. Sam looks away. It doesn’t help much. Dean’s everywhere, anyway; the smell of him, unwashed. The weapons in a heap on the second bed and the boots kicked off in the middle of the floor. The sound as he sucks down the milkshake, an empty rattle of spit. Smack smack smack of his lips as he licks his fingers.

It couldn’t be further from Sam’s orderly life. His penthouse apartment is wall-to-wall monochrome, shiny steel and glass. He has a custom-built storage system in every room. Everything has its place. In the fridge, green vegetables. A blender on the counter. A bowl of oranges, mostly for show.

This - what he walked away from all those years ago - it’s a mess. Nasty, violent, dangerous, unpredictable. Sam doesn’t  _ do  _ unpredictable any more. He keeps things tidy. He’s in control.

“Hey, Sammy,” says Dean from somewhere around Sam’s crotch. Sam jumps, and the wobbly chair creaks alarmingly. Kneeling between Sam’s open legs, Dean cracks a grin. One of the teeth at the side of his mouth is chipped.

Without thinking, Sam reaches his hand toward the injury. Dean doesn’t break eye contact as he closes his lips around Sam’s index finger. His tongue is warm and wet. Sam’s knuckle catches the broken edge of the tooth. “You should,” Sam says.

Dean slides off Sam’s finger with a pop. “I should what? Get it pulled? Can't afford to cap it.” He opens his mouth and runs the pointed tip of his tongue over the jagged enamel. “Hunter dentists ain’t up to much.” He eyes Sam with some consideration. “You could do it, maybe. I’ve got pliers in the trunk.”

Sam’s cheeks flame red. “No way.”

Dean shrugs. He slides his hands up the inside of Sam’s thighs. “Suit yourself.”

Sam’s slacks cost $700. Dean’s T-shirt has a hole in the shoulder near the collar. The freckled skin of his back shows through.

From somewhere suspended in the space inside his skull, Sam watches as Dean unzips the slacks; as he shuffles them down Sam’s thighs. In his ethical Scandinavian underwear, Sam is hard. Dean makes the same appreciative noise that Sam’s heard him offer up before pizza, chicken wings, pie. He fastens his spit-wet mouth over the line of Sam’s cock and sucks. Every muscle in Sam’s body tenses as he holds himself in place, keeping him from curling towards his brother, caving in.

There’s a hard metal rim running around the edge of the formica tabletop. Sam pushes the soft pad of his left thumb against it, pressing and pressing until it hurts. Dean slides his fingertips under the elastic of Sam’s underpants. There’s dirt under his fingernails. As he frees Sam’s dick, the back of his index finger brushes against it and sends a shiver sparking up Sam’s spine.

That’s all the preparation Sam gets before Dean leans forward and takes him into his mouth. Sam can’t help the choked-off sound he makes. Dean laughs, silent, the hum vibrating through Sam’s pelvis. Dean’s eyes are closed now, the lashes lying dark against his cheek. His tongue massages the underside of Sam’s dick and it’s all Sam can do to control himself. He curls his right hand into a fist, digs his left thumb against the table’s metal edge, feels the muscles pull tight across his ribs as he holds his breath. Hot waves of pleasure roll through him, roll across him. It’s like he’s being crushed. He closes his eyes. Black and yellow spots dance over the back of his eyelids.

There’s a cold gust of air over his cock. He opens his eyes to find Dean looking up at him, a frown creasing his forehead. “You gotta breathe, Sammy,” he says. Sam does, a long shaky outbreath and a series of stuttery gulps back in. Dean watches him until he’s back into a normal rhythm. He picks up Sam’s hand where it’s lying on the table. Sam’s thumb is bleeding, the line of the metal gouged deep.

“And you think I’m fucked up,” Dean says. A wave of nausea swells in Sam’s stomach. He doesn’t want to have this conversation. He stands up, stumbling as his pants fall around his ankles, steps out of them and pulls Dean up to meet him. Dean comes in a wave of animal scent, stale sweat and blood.

Dean’s eyes are wary but his jaw is set. Sam kisses him; kisses his own sour taste out of his brother’s mouth. He likes it better than everything he can taste underneath, the greasy salty tang of the junk that would kill Dean one day if a monster weren’t sure to get there first. He pulls at the hem of Dean’s tee and Dean gets the message, yanks it over his head to reveal the patchwork of scars that his body’s become.

Sam runs a finger over the bite mark on Dean’s hip. Big teeth. Nasty. Dean slaps Sam’s hand away. He steps back, unbuttoning his pants. “We gonna do this?” he says. Sam tugs his black cashmere sweater over his head, pulls off his socks. Of course they’re going to do it.

He pushes Dean in the chest and Dean falls back easy, onto the bed amidst the paper bags and the cardboard cartons with their traces of sauce. He spreads his legs, wriggles his ass against the cheap, stained blankets. “Ready when you are,” he says.

The little plastic bottle of lube is on the bed where Dean left it, still sticky from his fingers. Sam squeezes it into his palm and it gurgles empty like the last of Dean's milkshake. There's enough. He swipes it onto himself cursory, lurches forward and Dean backs up.

“Whoa, Sam,” he says. “No glove, no love.” He smiles, lopsided and unconvincing. “I don’t know where you’ve been.”

Sam is mortified. What was he thinking? But he wasn’t thinking, was he, he was just-- and that roiling wave of nausea pulses through him again. He turns away from Dean, falling to his knees as he scrabbles for a condom in the pocket of his crumpled pants.

When he finds it, his hands are shaking so much that he can’t open the packet. Squatted ungainly on the floor, he tugs uselessly at the foil, cursing himself.

Dean’s hand settles over his. Deft fingers prise open his grip. “I got it.”

They sit together on the end of the bed and Dean rolls the condom down onto Sam’s cock. He jerks Sam a couple times once he’s done and though it feels good Sam is jumbled, shaken up. No condom? What the  _ fuck.  _ And it’s not. He hasn’t. It’s not even that he doesn’t date any more; he barely jerks off because the trade-off doesn’t seem worth it, a few minutes’ pleasure for a day or more of obsessive, self-loathing thoughts. But Dean’s never been fussy about who he fucks and Sam knows that. He knows better than this.

Dean clears his throat and scooches back up the bed. He opens his legs and despite all of it, the guilt and the shame and the constant chastising voice at the back of his mind, Sam just wants to be inside his brother. He wants it in a way he never wants anything anymore. “Dean,” he says hoarsely and crawls his way up his brother’s body, clasps his hands around Dean’s hips and feels the bones pushing through.

The bottle of lube gasps its last in a final, feeble sputter but it doesn’t matter because when Sam pushes his finger into Dean’s ass, Dean clutches at his shoulders and says, “It’s okay, Sam, I already-- I’m ready, come on.”

He is ready, probably, but Sam barely bothers to check; lines up his cock and sinks uncareful and hasty into Dean. The room dissolves into a haze. It’s like the hot pressure exerted on his dick is squeezing the air out of his lungs. Sensations filter heightened and disconnected into Sam’s brain: the scratchy fibres of the blanket under his knees; his fingertips against the knobs of Dean’s spine; the pink flush over Dean’s face and chest. Dean flings his arms back over his head, lets himself go floppy and Sam pushes and pushes, too lost and too desperate to control the sounds he’s making or the force with which he’s thrusting or anything, anything; pushing forward toward oblivion, if he can just-- if he can just--

“Yes,” Dean says, “come on, Sam, yes, it’s okay,” and Sam realises what he’s been saying; “Please, please, please, please, please.”

“Please,” he says and owns it this time, out loud to the universe; sets himself adrift on the current of his own desire. He drives forward again and Dean sets his feet flat on the bed and pushes up to meet him, both of them straining against each other and it’s enough, it works, tipping Sam over the edge into breathless, incoherent freefall. Unravelling, he touches Dean everywhere he can reach him; his hands and mouth on Dean’s face, his jaw, his shoulders, his chest. Dean’s eyes, watching him, are fierce and dark.

Once the rush of orgasm drains from his body Sam’s suddenly shivery, the room’s inadequate heating revealing itself. All the spiralling tendrils of sensation on which he’s been floating seem to telescope back up inside him, leaving him naked and small. There’s a draught of cold air from the ill-fitting window. It raises goosebumps over his back.

Sam blinks slowly, trying to pull himself together. He wipes his eyes and looks down at his brother. Dean looks away and Sam notices with a twist of guilt that Dean’s cock is still sitting fat against his stomach, untouched. He reaches for it and Dean jerks away.

Sam says, “Let me--” and Dean’s jaw tightens. His pulse ticks in his throat.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says.

“What?”

“I got it.” Dean props himself up on his elbow, curls away from Sam and jacks himself in swift, efficient strokes. He lowers his eyes, his expression closed and unreadable. A hot burst of shame blooms in Sam's chest.

It doesn't take long before Dean makes a low noise and comes into his own cupped hand. He looks at it and wipes the mess deliberately onto the blanket. Sam is seized with the urge to press his mouth against the poly-blend; to suck the fibres free of Dean's come and everything else, all the accumulated grime of every fuck that the bed's ever seen. He wants to do it. He wants to feel Dean's hand on the back of his skull, to have Dean push him down into the mattress until he stifles.

“We done?” Dean says. He sits up and pulls the blanket over himself; stands with it wrapped around his waist like a towel. “I'm sure you've got plenty more important things to get back to.”

Sam absorbs the blow. He starts to pick up his clothes. His wallet is heavy in the pocket of his pants. “Let me give you some money,” he says to Dean. He took cash out this morning, two thousand dollars, thinking of tonight and the way Dean had sounded when he said to Sam, “Don't forget to bring food.”

He flinches as the plastic chair clatters loud against the wall behind him. The seat detaches from the legs. “Fuck you,” says Dean.

“You need it,” Sam says, regretting it.

“Don't fucking push me,” Dean says. He takes a step towards Sam and stops, fists clenched, chest heaving. He looks dangerous like this. He looks like Dad. “I don't know what you think this is. In fact, let me make something clear. This is in lieu of legal fees, Sam, and don't go telling yourself it's anything else. Okay? Don't think I don't know who got the cops off my ass in Louisiana. That's fine, I'm grateful, I think I fucking showed you a good time. I don't want your money. I don't need your money. I'm fine.”

Sam inhales, exhales, careful and slow, focusing on the sound of his breath. “All right,” he says. He puts his clothes back on.

Almost as soon as he closes the door behind him there’s a crash, the smash of something breaking - a vase, a lamp, a television - and the crack of Dean’s fist against the wall. Sam feels the impact up inside his chest, his ribs vibrating like a struck gong. His knees are treacherous underneath him. He grips tight onto the handrail as he descends the outside stairs.

The car is in the motel parking lot, of course, because Dean’s a suicidal idiot who doesn’t seem to care that he’s wanted in all 50 states. He has at least changed the plates. Sam makes a note of the new ones. Can’t hurt to run a few checks, change a few data points if he has to. He glances back up at the room and then crosses over to the banger he came in, grabs the slim jim he slid into his laptop bag this morning and returns to the Impala. He cracks the passenger door, oh-so-carefully (Dean really might kill him if he did something to the car) and leaves the money in the glove compartment, rolled in an elastic band. Worst case, Dean’ll throw it out the window. Best case, it’ll prevent another botched hustle, another broken jaw. He’ll need it to pay for the damage to the room, if nothing else.

Sam is barely out of the parking lot when he has to pull the truck over to the side of the road so he can throw up. When he gets home, he showers for forty-five minutes. Then he throws out everything in his fridge.

*          *          *

It’s four and a half months  before  he gets another message. WHITE HORSE MOTEL WATSEKA, it says. BRING FOOD.

**Author's Note:**

> i love your comments like sam's public persona loves kale


End file.
